It has not been a great weekend.
Yesterday I worked all day; work was busy and rather stressful.
My aches and pain were awful last night and so I didn’t get much sleep.
I woke up with a slightly muzzy head and decided to clean my kitchen. Fascinating stuff I know.
It was looking like a hoarders paradise in there; my cheese grater has been MIA for a week and the contents of the stuffed-full shit drawer had spilled out on to the work surfaces. Every time I went out there I got the major hump, so it needed to be done.
I tided, scrubbed, threw away, sorted, and organised my shit.
My kitchen now looks banging. (Yep, that sounds big headed but I don’t care, I’m proud)
I have a major obsession with bleach. I love the stuff and I bleach everything. If I buy a toy from the charity shop the hubbo always jokes that he needs to hide the bleach as I have a tendency to put second hand things in the bath and bleach them.
This stems from when the mancub was small and I bought a jumperoo second hand online from possibly the scariest place I have ever been to. When I went to pick it up there were half-feral children playing in the street, fist-holes in the front door and an old lady was sat outside with a peg leg. I shit you not.
Anyways, I digress – this jumperoo was filthy. I cannot even explain how bad it was, the whole thing was a sticky smelly mess. A rainforest jumperoo should be bright green and red and lots of neon-bright colours. This one was brown and vile. It had shit stains in the seat. Bleurgh.
Hubbo said I should have just said no but I was very scared of Granny Pegleg so I just grabbed it, threw the cash at the scary lady and ran.
When we got home I took the whole thing apart, and put it in the bath. Anything remotely fabric-like went on a boil wash; everything else was soaked in bleach and hot water for an hour. Hubbo said I was crazy; I disagreed – it was either bleach it or set fire to it.
It came up like new and I ended up selling it for four times as much as I bought it for. (I’m not suggesting you bleach a jumperoo as you aren’t supposed to but my devotion to the bleach-hood paid off on this occasion)
Unfortunately I think I inhaled a little too much bleach this morning and my head is now pounding. I think my sinuses are blocked or I’m getting sick or something and my head feels like it’s been whacked repeatedly by a granny wielding a peg leg.
The mancub has been vile. I thought we had a break through and he’s been listening to us and behaving so much better.
Today he has been awful; by not listening and really playing up. All. Damn. Day.
He’s picked my carpet apart at the bottom of the stairs. He’s torn a book up. He hijacked my best pencil(yes I have a favourite pencil, I don’t get out much) and keeps climbing the back of the sofa.
And I’m ashamed to say I lost my shit.
I’d managed to stay calm and patient all day. But he was relentless and would not listen.
He had nicked aforementioned best pencil and was running around with it. I asked for my pencil. He said no.
I asked again, but this time in that I-AM-TALKING-SLOWLY-AND-ABOUT-TO-LOSE-MY-SHIT tone. Again, he said no.
My head was pounding and I grew desperate. I threatened and bribed. Biscuit? Postman Pat? Or do you want to go to bed(damn, I always said I’d never do that one – “bed will ALWAYS be a place of peace and calm and never a threat” – fuck you, pre-parent me).
“No mummy” he said.
He then started to stick my best pencil up his nose.
I half panicked he would poke himself in the brain and half got very cross.
I had no words, no more methods. I lost my shit.
I shouted. I waved my finger in his face. I told him to stop being naughty.
He then threw the pencil in my face. And laughed.
“That is IT. Go and sit on the FUCKING step NOW” I said.
He listened, and trotted off to the step. But straight away I was mortified. And upset.
I always vowed I would never lose my shit. And dropping an expletive in there makes it so much worse. That’s my nomination for Mum of the Year down the shitter. Or even more down the shitter than it already was.
I told the hubbo I needed a poo, so I could escape for five minutes.
I locked myself in the toilet and cried.
I did some of that sob-talking where I think I made no sense to any other human or animal; maybe dogs and dolphins could understand but that’s about it. I told myself what a terrible mother I was and a despicable human being.
I was half expecting social services to knock on the door within the hour. And for some snooty lady to tell me how bad a mother I am, how shouting is terrible and to then beaten to a pulp with a good parenting guide for swearing at my child.
I calmed down and went downstairs, he said sorry and I said sorry. We had a cuddle and a kiss and did the cute thing where we rub noses.
“Wuv you my mummy” he said.
“I love you mostest my baby” I said.
And we sat snuggled under our blanket watching Mr. Bean, and all was alright.
Apart from the guilt. The guilt is still there. Damn, five hours on and I still feel terrible.
Tomorrow is a new day… don’t hate me readers, I really hope I’m not alone.